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We headed next to a ceramics shop where Hunter paid for a private class on how to make clay pots. Before I knew it, there was a massive pile of clay spinning at an intimidating speed on some kind of device in front of us. Our outing was continuing one way or another—Hunter was making sure of it—and as much as I wanted to go back to the hotel with him, I was genuinely having fun.
“Lots, you have to touch it,” Hunter said, his lips lifting in a smirk.
His hands wrapped clumsily around the spinning pile of clay, and in seconds it started to turn into a cylindrical shape. I wiped the sweat from my palms on the apron I’d been instructed to wear, putting off the inevitable.
Something about the smell and texture of clay had bothered me since I was a kid—I’d never been one to make things with the colorful contents of Play-Doh canisters. I’d pitched a fit when we had to use it in art class. A shiver ran down my body as I covered the clay with water then slowly pushed down on the pedal as the instructor had shown us. Pressing one finger into the side of the clump, I watched as a solid line began to form all the way around the edges.
“You can make whatever you feel comfortable making, Charlotte.” The woman who was teaching us, Angie, said as she stood in the corner of the room, firing the kiln. She’d given us a walkthrough of how to do the basics, then left us to our own devices, allowing our imaginations and curiosity to form our creations.
“Thanks,” I called over my shoulder.
As I turned back to Hunter, I couldn’t stop myself from staring as he rested his two thumbs on the top of his cylinder. With the gentlest of touches, he pressed down with slick fingers, creating a well in the center. He curved them, dragging the well down along with my thoughts. After a day and a half of nonstop sex and debauchery, I was still turned on just by the simplicity of how his fingers moved, how the little veins and tendons in his hand flexed.
“You can’t do that,” I mumbled.
“I can’t make a mug?”
“You can’t finger your mug.”
His grin turned wicked as realization crept over him. “Don’t tell me you’re getting turned on watching me make a mug, Lottie.”
“You’ve touched me just like that too many times to count in the last twenty-four hours,” I said under my breath. My jaw ached, my teeth clamped together with frustration, and I had to force myself to relax.
“There’s no way you’re still?—”
“I am,” I croaked, cutting him off before he could go too far into detail at his volume. “Don’t ask me how. I just am.”
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him being all over me, hadn’t been able to get the feeling of his hands between my thighs out of my mind. He was like a fucking drug—one I was quickly becoming addicted to.
“Maybe I should make something else instead,” he chuckled. Deep green eyes met mine in a flash as he crushed the would-be mug beneath his hand. My fingers stilled against the base of my own, curiosity rising, and I watched with bated breath as he began shaping again. Still a bit clumsy and still nowhere near a level of professionalism, I sucked in air as what he was making slowly became obvious.
“Hunter—”
“What? I think it’d be a perfect souvenir for you.”
He squeezed the cylinder toward the top, making a swollen bulb at the end before taking his foot off the pedal and going at it stationary.
“Angie’s going to see.”
“I’m sure it won’t be the first time she’s had someone make a scale replica of their own cock,” he smirked.
The sound of something smashing behind us made me jump. I looked over my shoulder, the sound of whirring growing louder, and watched as Angie stood before a pile of broken ceramic pieces that looked like they had once been a poorly painted mug. She glanced at us, her pale cheeks turning bright red before mumbling an apology and scurrying off.
“Lottie, your clay?—”
Something thick and wet slapped against my foot. I turned back to Hunter, noting the shapeless clump on my spinning board. The same board that was going a million miles per hour.
Within a second, Hunter was on his knees in front of me.
Wet fingers caressed the top of my boot, wiping off remnants of clay. Each movement was gentle, and I felt a wave of guilt about fucking up the new shoes he’d just bought me.
“Sorry,” I sighed. I offered him the towel meant for my hands as he dropped thick, mushy slab of clay onto the still plate. “I must have pressed down a little too hard on the pedal.”
“It’s fine,” he grinned. “We can always get you another pair.”
————
The sun hung low in the sky, casting reflections of pinks, reds, and oranges onto the buildings of downtown Austin. There wasn’t a wisp of frigid air, not a cloud in the sky, and although I missed seeing the mountain scape of Boulder on the horizon, the warmth and clear skies were a welcome relief . I understood what he’d meant now, about how he didn’t need to perform. Without cameras following us or the constant phone calls from work, without the looming pressure of the absurd game we were playing, we could truly just relax.
